


How We Get By

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Adultery, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tough holiday has them reliving some old memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Get By

It wouldn't be a Pine Thanksgiving without at least one fight. But this time, Chris is at the center of it and can't beg off from the circus, can't find a quiet corner to drink wine and tune it all out. So much to be thankful for after the past year, and yet a little shouting about how he should handle his career is all it takes to send him to the sanctuary of his car, peeling out of his parents' driveway without a thought for the desserts and coffee he'll be missing.

Of course, it's raining. He parks a half-block from the bar and pulls his jacket over his head as he runs, sneakers soaking from the puddles lying in wait between sidewalk cracks. The cuffs of his jeans are damp when he walks in, wet denim brushing cold and rough against his bare ankles.

"Bud," he tells the bartender, keeping it simple. He pulls out his wallet and glances up when someone sits beside him.

"Put it on my tab," the man says. It's John, looking every bit as disheveled and exhausted as Chris feels. He offers Chris a half-smile, probably all the smile he can muster. "Hey, man. Happy whatever."

"Hey, wow, hi." Chris laughs and nods to be polite, putting his wallet back into his pocket. He wants to ask what it means that John is here at the same bar that he's fled to, but there's no one around to answer but himself. "Am I to assume family drama has led you here? It's not often you see married men in bars on Thanksgiving."

"You'd be surprised," John answers quietly. His eyes are trained on the beer placed before Chris, trailing the mouth of the bottle as it lifts to Chris' lips. "That's on me," he says, as if Chris didn't hear him before, a bit of a slur in his voice.

"I know. Thanks, man."

Chris looks at him, clapping his shoulder lightly. John—usually laughing, always the first to crack a joke—looks more far away than Chris has ever seen him. It's no secret that holidays are the worst when things aren't going well as is. He watches the lines in John's face shift as he drinks and wonders what's going on his world.

"Don't mention it," John mumbles, his fingers tracing patterns on the outside of his cocktail glass.

*

 _"It doesn't mean anything," John whispered, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. As if Chris wanted it that way. But he smiled, navigating as best as he could in the darkness of the supply room to unzip John's pants and do as much as he wanted to do in the short time they had between takes._

 _Chris kissed away John's moan when his fingers wrapped around him, pressed John's body against the wall. "I know, man," he whispered back, propping himself up with a palm when John returned the favor, took Chris' length into his hand and squeezed. "I get it," he said, on a gasp. "You're stressed. We all are. It—it's a lot." John laughed mirthlessly, a laugh Chris wasn't used to hearing from him._

 _"Just imagine...if you were married," he said, exhaling as he pushed his hips forward. Chris circled his thumb around the crown of John's cock and leaned forward to nudge his face against John's mouth, finding the underside of his chin instead. He traced the dips and curves of John's throat with his lips and when he trembled, Chris wondered if he was always like this or if this was a special occasion._

 _"I can't," he finally said. He couldn't think of anything because John's hand was doing all the right things and turning most of his salient thoughts to static, but he especially couldn't think of days like these ending in equally demanding nights; he couldn't think of the responsibility of dividing his passion between work and art and family. He had his own share of tough times, but marriage...it was another world. "S'gotta be tough," he murmured, his cheek grazing John's jaw._

 _"Just...let's not talk about it," John whispered, though it wasn't cold at all because John couldn't be cold, not even if he tried. He was just asking for one thing. So Chris closed his hand around him and gave it until John had his fill._

*

John makes the same sound when he comes that Chris remembers: a lilting, breathy thing, as if he can't believe someone could touch him like this, or make him feel this way. To Chris' ears, it rings as grateful; he supposes that makes sense for someone as sincere and charming as John. He licks his cock clean and lifts the zipper back up when he's done, holding back any urges to kiss or touch the line of exposed skin between shirt and belt buckle.

"Feeling better?" he asks, getting back to his feet. John chuckles faintly, shrugging his shoulders in his vague, nondescript way.

"Yeah, good as new." He plasters on a smile and touches Chris' jaw lightly, still leaning against the rickety bathroom stall wall. It's already more than Chris got back when they were filming, though he wasn't complaining then and wouldn't dare now. "How about you?" he asks, his gaze torn between Chris' eyes and his mouth.

"Man, don't worry," Chris says. He reaches up to touch the patch of scalp that still stings from when John lost his senses and pulled. "You bought me that beer."

"Shit. M'gonna buy you beers more often." John smiles again in amusement and pulls Chris close by his arm, until his erection is pressed against John's thigh and he can't help the little gasp that leaves his lungs. John holds Chris steady by his hips and sighs in his ear, as if he's repeating something he's already said a thousand times. "Take what you need, okay?" he murmurs, soft and low. "Just like old times. It's how we get by."

He thinks about backing away but John feels so warm compared to the shiver in his bones, set in deep by the rain and the chill of what's waiting for him back home. Chris tentatively curls his fingers around his friend's shoulders and buries his nose in the curve of his neck as he rolls his hips. He takes and takes and John doesn't stop him until he's done, spent and slack, whispering thanks into his skin.

Chris doesn't let him depart without a kiss. "Well, just this once," John says, leaning in, alcohol still damp and bitter on his breath. "But don't tell anyone, or everybody will want a piece of me."

He has no doubt that that's true.


End file.
